


Equilibrium

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, Lingerie, Porn With Plot, Power Exchange, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Season/Series 03, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 18:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15419310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Equilibrium is said to be the state in which opposing forces may become balanced. On a night when she's been plied with liquor, Vera expresses her genuine discontent toward the imbalance between Joan and herself. Ever clever, the Governor finds a feasible solution.





	1. Imbalance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Saint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Saint/gifts).



> This idea was originally sent to me by the wonderful Saint last September. It takes me quite some time to get around to prompts. Needless to say, the original idea was this: Vera has gotten drunk and confessed something to Joan which Joan, keeps a secret for weeks/months. There’s a reversal of power to establish trust. Joan seduces Vera in white while she allows Vera to take the metaphorical reins and wears black. Saint fed me snippets of dialogue and I weaved it into what you’re about to read. Massive credit and kudos to her. So, thank you for the massive inspiration!

It was a familiar scene, one that’s been written and rewritten.

Drinking the Devil’s water, Deputy Governor Bennett learned to swallow down three parts vodka, one part tonic, without so much as a grimace. In a grand mirror act, she followed her superior’s actions. In these debriefs, they drank too much.

Joan lost herself to the game. She wore her hair down, maintaining a rare beauty no matter the stern demeanor. Vera loosened her dreadfully tight bun that pressed against her scalp and dug into her skull by the day’s end. Her ponytail hung limply while it grazed her tense shoulders.

Miss Ferguson reckoned Smith to be a worthy adversary, but Vera proved to be a pawn of equal measure.

“What do you want, Vera?” Joan inquired in a husky tenor.

Theirs was a moment of human fellowship. Vera began to harbor doubts. Suspicions were a slow-killing poison. She knew not the difference between need and want. Imbibed, the little mouse grew bold. Her confession spilled like a splash of vodka on the chest of her blouse which opened at the throat. The white fabric became translucent, revealing a glimpse of skin.

So, she had teeth.

For her entire life, Vera was a passenger. Now, under Joan’s tutelage, she learned how to bite back.

“You say you value trust, but… I don’t feel equal to you.”

The statement hung in the stale air. In the closed-off office which, at midnight, seemed detached from prison. In her stupor, her hand flew to her mouth. In a dance, she swayed in her chair. Moved her knees towards the Governor’s.

Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. Still, she persisted with her monologue. She felt hot from the vodka.

“You always have the upperhand. You give me everything without allowing me to reciprocate.” She thought about adding an ‘it’s not fair’ and decided against it last minute. Too childish. Good thing. The Governor’s presence seemed to contain, if not dwarf, her subordinate’s.

Droll Westnull must have probed her Deputy into asking these ridiculous questions. Of that, Joan was certain.

 “I-I shouldn’t have said that,” Vera stammered, desperate to cover up the scene of the crime. Shouldn't have, but did anyway: put that on her tombstone.

Joan listened with a differential air to Vera’s statements. Her head tilted to the side, as if she had been affected by the liquor. Maybe it was the seventy-proof vodka. Maybe it was the revelation lingering in the dark like her steadfast manipulation of Spiteri. She didn’t speak. Instead, she offered a ghost of a grin.

Becoming and ruin bred intrigue.

When Joan smiled, she never showed her teeth. So, when she was drunk, Vera registered it as genuine. Her finger curled to graze Vera’s chin.

“Haven’t we achieved great things together?”

Her venomous touch delved lower, unfastening the remainder of the buttons that held Vera’s blouse together. Her uprising was forgotten, all too distracted by where a swift hand wandered. Fingers around her throat and beneath her skirt made her a willing recipient.

The question of the prison palace remained: who was to rule?

Vera ruled nothing and dominated no one. She was submissive, seemingly incapable of flexibility - of _true_ versatility. 

Time passed as the cliché went. Weeks moved the mundane along. A few midnight decisions and heated trysts were thrown into the mix. Away from the CCTV. Vera forgot all about her temporary boldness.

But Joan hadn’t forgotten.

No, she remembered and she plotted. Schemed, even.

The puppet master was at it again.

In passing, on the way to patrol H-block, the Governor mentioned a late-night _casual_ feast at her home. The suggestion rolled off her tongue. Vera was all too giddy to oblige though she masked her enthusiasm well, learning from the best, by simply nodding her head with an obedient ‘Yes, Guv’na.’

These were the days after Rita’s (demise) _passing_.

At the Devil’s door, she wore blue jeans and a v-neck t-shirt. It was a plain outfit that blended into a lackluster crowd. Nothing about her screamed extraordinary. Her knuckles scraped the lacquered wood.

She stood on Joan’s doorstep with a livid rant in mind. She felt a bit used, a bit ignored, a bit jaded. Her attitude towards Joan manifested itself as a new beast to be reckoned with. At least, internally. A different fantasy, however, was meant to be fulfilled. These were the days after the riot, after her supposed flu that she had ‘miraculously’ recovered from.

Joan feigned innocence standing in the threshold of the doorway. A satin bathrobe hung loosely from her broad, albeit rounded shoulders. Her nose scrunched at a loose thread which rebelled, unraveling from the seams that held the piece together.

Her entire flat felt cold. The sight of Joan warmed Vera.

Loose hair prone to grey fell in a dark curtain. She smelled of amber and the remnants of smoke. The wanting came in waves. It crushed Vera to see Joan painted in the golden glow of her flat like some retablo, holy and reverent. All of her scorn dried up. She wanted to drop to her knees before this barefoot saint and to do more than pray. She wanted to worship.

Vera’s throat tightened.

Though her mother taught her that it was rude to gawk and to chew with her mouth open, Vera Bennett stared all the same. Unable to process a Botticelli painting brought to life, she stuttered in disbelief. She ran hot. Felt the beads of sweat gather along her hairline. Her response was near inarticulate.

Her eyes wandered down to strong, shapely calves and firm thighs on display.

"Umm… Joan?"

"Yes, Vera?" With a cant of her head, her unsettling abysmal stare traced the hidden curves of her Deputy. A coy smile pulled at the corner of her lips. “Do come in. Forgive my appearance.”

What game was she playing?

She stepped aside for her disciple to follow. The door shut behind them, bolted and locked. Red wine aerated in a crystal decanter handed down by her mother’s generation.

A cruel charmer lured Vera in.

In silence, the Governor worked. She poured her an ambitiously full glass. After all, she looked like she needed it. Poor thing was **parched**. Gratefully, she accepted the libation and drank steadily, her shy eyes having the tendency to wander.

"Joan?" She fumbled for words. Mentioned the wrap that barely contained Joan's body.  "You... you're wearing white?"

The robe bestowed her with a ghostly glow.

"I must commend you on your observation, Vera."

Vera blinked while registering her first conscious thought. “You _never_ wear white. In all the time I've known you, it's always been **black**."

Dear Vera couldn’t look away. She fell into the tar trap completely.

Joan mustered a noncommittal glance at her attire before settling her attention on Vera again.

"I opted for change. I paid heed to a simple request.”

Vera looked perplexed and mouthed the word ‘request.’ The whole situation felt absurd, as if she had been plunged down the rabbit hole of some twisted fantasy. She sipped again. Christ, she hated Shiraz. It was too dry, too rich, like blood from a fresh kill.

A scoff. A mere flourish of the wrist.

"It's obvious you don't recall. Why would you?"

Joan took a slow step forward, her long legs allowing for her to cross over the threshold. She moved as a cat would to close in on its prey. This was no different. Every movement was measured, timed with a skilled precision.

She gestured with an open hand to her current attire. "You  _always_ wear white. I, on the other hand, prefer black. Some would say that makes us equals. _Sympatico_.” She hissed like the Snake in the Garden of Eden enlightening Eve on the art of temptation. Of cardinal sin. “—to all those familiar with yin and yang symbols. You, as well as I, know this to be false. To be one-sided, to be exact, is _not_ equal."

Joan delivered her speech with refined tact. She ran the symbolism down to the ground. Squashed it like an opponent in a skillful fencing match.

Confusion flooded her features. System overdrive. Her button-nose gave a rabbit-hearted wiggle.

"Not equal?" Echoed Vera. Joan did have a point, which Vera only noticed when she registered their height. Like a monolith, an obelisk, Joan towered over her.

Their titles presented a power imbalance. Vera always served under Joan as deputy governor. Then, there was the matter of their relationship. What was it? The label, the cursed word? Friends with benefits?

Now that she reflected on the situation, Joan slithered into her home and left come dawn. Vera had never seen Joan’s flat in its entirety until now. The fencing mask stood as a relic on display beside a dust-free violin.

Vera had often want to approach the subject, feeling a need to label what this was between them. She kept those thoughts, those hopeful desires, to herself.

"You see, Vera, sometimes change is necessary." 

She circled the bewildered, little mouse who drank even more. A single, red splash remained in the glass.

"White is often seen as the color of innocence, pure of heart. Virginal. Vera, you always wear whiTe beneath the surface. A blushing bride begging to be taken." She hummed, spinning a lyrical web.

Each remark sounded as if she was scolded. The compulsion to tuck her tail between her legs and turn the other cheek proved to be much too great. However, desire won the battle. Vera wanted to defend herself. Against _what_? Despite being a woman, Vera took to wearing girlishly innocent cotton. She yearned to understand the heart of the matter.

"Do you or do you not feel that you are an equal in this partnership?" Pushed Joan, demanding to be answered, demanding to know, ever demanding was Joan in all aspects of her life.

"Ah... umm! What? Us?!" Vera stammered. A hand reached behind her back to her neck and clawed at her scalp which prickled. A shiver ran down her spine. Why couldn’t this infuriating woman just be direct? Instead, she ran in proverbial circles, embodying the Riddle of the Sphinx.

“You don't recall so you?" The Governor tutted. "Think back, Vera, to that sordid night many weeks ago. You expressed, or rather, _implied_ —” A timed pause. She built her own metronome while mulling over her words carefully. It was a politician’s speech. "—that you feel less than equal.

_Oh._

So this was what it meant to be caught red-handed. Shame burned her cheeks. Vera gulped. She lacked the finesse to defend herself properly. Compared to Joan, Vera was a complete and utter novice. This moment took her back to the time she briefly replaced Meg Jackson. Horribly embarrassed, she wanted to flee. Instead, the new rendition of Vera won. She chose to stand her ground. To pretend to be fierce.

The way Joan stalked the halls paralleled her gait at Wentworth: she owned both these places, held dominion over all, including Vera.

 "I-I... I didn't mean it. When I drink, my tongue loosens."

This served a higher purpose. Joan sought power. A little bit needed to be fed to Vera for the sake of recovering that waning trust. Slender, graceful fingers drifted toward the belt of the silken robe. Gossamer slipped from her sloped shoulders. She peeled open the garment though she didn’t lay her heart bare. Exposing herself, Joan Ferguson donned a flattering set of lingerie. 

The lacy bra cupped her generous breasts while complimenting a pair of silk, low-rise panties. She had curves in all the right places. An impeccable thirst now drove her underling.

“If my memory proves correctly, you felt less than equal, regarded as the inexperienced one.”

_Your innocence drew me to you._

The thought went unspoken, locked away in her maze-like mind for safekeeping.

Vera remained in a state of perplexity, her mouth dry, still gawking at Joan who now stood before her, scandalously dressed.

 She struck her fingers together, dangling them before her deputy. Snap, snap.

"It appears that I'm wearing white for a change." Announced Joan wryly. She repeated the word, the color, so that it would resonate. So that it would have meaning. 

Vera rubberbanded out of her trance.

"Obviously, Joan. I see that amongst..." Her voice trailed off, sounding smaller than usual. “—Other things.”

Joan arched a brow. Impatience stirred within. She remained calm and civil.

“You're looking, but you're not noticing, Vera!" She crowed. "This is a matter of trust. Of **balance**."

How could she _not_ look?

She wasn’t some brazen soldier turned to stone before a Gorgon’s heady stare. Vera behaved as an Ivanushka would in the fairytales she learned of as a girl. She did not want an Ivan. Her father was an Ivan, cold and cruel, nothing like the stories.

Her raven’s mane contradicted the milk white pallor of her skin and the ivory lace. This was for Vera’s sake, not her own. Balance was a must. The scales needed to be level.

It made her look even paler, not as a Snow White come to fruition, but an Evil Queen redeemed.

Due to Vera’s ungrateful response, her right eye twitched. A subtle movement that left behind a phantom trace. She had to be kept in line so that Joan could continue her steadfast manipulations of Spiteri.

“It seems your mother failed to teach you proper manners,” Joan remarked dryly.

That stung.

There was an acidity to her words. A powerful bite that the old Vera would have shied away from. Push came to shove in the proverbial sense.

“You play too many games, Joan,” Vera rasped, her voice hoarse from anticipation. “I’m sick of it.”

There was the fire that Joan desired. Such a cruel mistress wore a cunning smirk.

Her glass slammed down on the espresso cabinet stocked with vintage wine from cut deals years before Joan’s reign at Wentworth. She would have liked another. Instead, Vera curbed her appetite and turned her attention to the wolf in the den. Watery blue eyes drifted towards the white gift box that resided there. She found irony in the color. With exalted breath, her cheeks hollowed. Curiosity got the better of her.      

“What’s in the box?” The Deputy echoed the words of Bluebeard’s lost wives.

Distance was a stranger to them. Her mouth caressed the shell of her ear where she felt a flicker of tongue.

“The size should be right,” the wolf whispered to her wolfling. “Take action.”

She recoiled like a misfired gun which filled her with a bullet of sick longing. Vera held the box to her chest, as if it were a prized possession, and stormed down the hall, blind to the smirk branded into her curved back.

Master of her dominion, Joan only had to sip her Shiraz and wait patiently. The rook moves forward to claim her queen.


	2. Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the fastest I've finished a fic with multiple parts, ha!

The hour of temptation drew near.

With the box in tow, she excused herself from the den to lock herself away. Vera was by no means a cat, curiosity didn’t kill her. She plucked the black lace set from its coffin. In her brazen defiance, she bunched the intimate apparel in her rattling grip. Thought about tossing it into the rubbish bin, thought about giving Joan a piece of her mind.

Did she have the courage?

Of course not.

A sharp intake of breath followed. She freed her frizzy mane. Turned on the tap to run her trembling fingers through the cool spray of water. She attempted to combat her rebellious curls.

Piece by piece, she dismantled her current attire. Folded her bland wardrobe and allowed for the remnants to drape over the edge of the porcelain, claw-footed tub. She hadn’t an inkling as to where else she should put it.

Dressed in black, she spun before the bathroom mirror. Tawny shoulders wilted. The lacey bra faintly resembled a scandalous tank top. The garment hugged her cleavage. Her pert breasts popped. She tilted her hip, bared the swell of her ass. In doing so, Vera furrowed her brow.

She put on the stockings, but didn’t feel sexy. Out of place would better describe her current predicament. She felt foolish in the washroom, trailing her fingers along the impression of mesh. Netted, she was caught in the webbing. Should’ve invested in a garter belt with thigh highs, instead. A delicate chemise would have hid her insecurities.

Vera envisioned whale-boned or steel-boned corsets complimenting her curves, accentuating her feminine (mystique) physique. She had none of these things, only Joan’s gift, which contributed to her pulsing and awakening.

Sans heels, her bare feet nearly winced from the frigid, wooden floor. In the presence of her superior, she felt terribly small. Vera looked more delicate than she was.

“Stake your claim, Vera. This offer expires very soon,” came the disembodied baritone of her superior.

Take, stake, take. Was that all their relationship consisted of?

Joan baited - no, **taunted** \- her. A ping of irritation plucked at the fine, downy hair on the nape of her neck. She bristled. That gave her confidence.

“Prove yourself.”

Draped across the black sofa, every splash of color functioned as chiaroscuro. She sipped from her wine glass, her form seemingly cut from marble. Their bodies contrasted the lingerie and the lingerie contradicted their roles. Vera spied the glint of amusement embedded in that hawkish stare.

When Vera reappeared, she breathed in deeply. Took the chalice from the conqueror’s sworn right hand and sipped from it herself. Shiraz remained a terrible taste, but she needed that liquid courage to set her straight.

To which, Joan replied with “have more tact than that.”

Death seemed bored to tears. This home was made of gold and bones. Vera tried to ignore the photograph of a young girl with her father staring back. She had her questions though she swallowed them for the moment.

Though she wasn’t wine drunk, she felt the familiar buzz. It didn’t take much to affect her. Being petite allowed her to be a lightweight by proxy. On the plus side, her hands no longer fidgeted. Dionysus would’ve been proud of this maenad.

Her wandering mind entertained the notion of marriage with Joan - to be Tsaritsa of this empty hellscape. Leaning forward, her thumb traced Joan’s décolletage in a way that’s been done before. Performed on herself.

“Sit,” Death commanded.

A pair of firm, strong hands grasped her by the waist and pulled her onto a hot lap. In response, she squeaked like a dying mouse caught in the viper’s curled grip. Though she appeared to be colder than a statue, she was warm to the touch. Perturbed by Joan’s action, Vera rocked her hips. Locked eyes as a noteworthy challenge.

“You told me that the tables were turned,” she protested, a near whine to her tone.

Her Marya Morevna was wrapped up in a pretty bow of dark lace. She wanted to fall victim to primal urges. The Governor experienced a fierce desire to rip the fabric from Vera’s sharp edges and to taste her skin beneath her gnashing teeth. As is the case for all aspects of her life, Joan repressed beastly instinct.

“I said nothing about languishing control,” Joan quipped. “Lose these.” She commanded with the hunger of a warlord, plucking at the strings of the mesh stockings.

“Say _please_ ,” crooned Vera in a sickly-sweet voice, finishing the last of Joan’s glass. She flipped a switch, turned a leaf, however the saying went.

The empty glass now slept on the glass coffee table. It irked Joan, but some losses were necessary on the battlefield. Determined to correct her deputy’s unlawful thoughts, Iustitia sought to balance trust’s scales. For everything a reason.

“Mm… No,” Joan crooned, her tone mocking yet sultry. A fierce tug needled at the network of her stockings. Succinct replies rivaled a parry, a thrust. “ _Off_ they come.”

Vera, Joan mused, was a small woman capable of potential. She left behind the tenderness of a lamb. Her strong back kept her upright.

In a lightning quick movement, she seized hold of her wrist. Joan’s pale finger grazed tendon and muscle buried beneath bronze skin. Vera wanted a connection, not some one-sided affair that led to a chase where she was always caught, captured, coming fast and hard. Her Deputy squirmed.

“Why are you letting me do this?”

Disappointed by her disciple’s lack of comprehension skills, Miss Ferguson tutted. 

“Order, Vera. I want your obedience. For once in your life, take conTrol.”

Disappointed by her disciple’s lack of comprehension skills, Miss Ferguson tutted. 

The answer didn’t satisfy her as much as she had hoped.

Why was it always about conquering?

At wit’s end, she still held onto a flicker of doubt. The stockings sprung off. Their mangled remains rested on the ground.

“You demand my loyalty,” Vera persisted. “Let me have this.”

Just this once, the Governor yielded. Want poisoned. No doubt about it.

In the pale light, Vera was branded with a halo. Her soft skin glowed, the musculature of her shoulders shifted and rose with each fell swoop. How the maestro of demise longed to inflict pain. To leave behind a motley of bruising. First, Vera required her fill. Then, Joan could act.

Encouraged, Vera chose to seize the moment. Carpe diem, as it were. She gripped this titan by the shoulders. Warm like a firebird, Vera’s kisses breathed life and heat into her. Her full lips begged to be nipped and sucked on until they were swollen, throbbing, _aching_.

Vera sub-planted flavors into those few empty kisses. She had bitten her maker, rectifying Joan’s sanctimonious yet hollow press of the lips. The small of her back burned from where Joan dragged her nails.

Those kisses threatened to choke the life out of Vera. Lips and teeth clashed as if this were waged war. Tongue slipped in. Seduction tasted like shiraz and ruin.

Panting, she recoiled in desperate need of air. Blessed are the meek. In this special case, she inherited something far greater than the earth. She had Joan’s pleasure, the fine promise of reciprocity.

The scratches on her back ached pleasantly. Vera reached for the iron curtain and gave a harsh tug. She savored Joan’s rich scent; the slight trace of tobacco was hidden by a current of amber and vanilla. The pulling at her scalp rivaled a crown of thorns. She would not have that. Despite her lax approach, she maintained some restrictions.

“Not the hair,” Joan snipped.

Such a brazen thing rode her thigh. Restraint was a fool’s farce. She could have easily brushed Vera off, tossed her aside with relative ease, though she didn’t. She wouldn’t.

“So keen,” the Governor mused aloud.

Their positions shifted. A bony knee wedged between pale, ivory thighs. The Marquise of Hell spread her legs wider. A faint growl accompanied her consent.

She smattered her limbs, her breasts, her soft belly lightly sculpted from labor, with kisses. Each kiss promised a hint of tongue, a nip and a lick. She kissed where she thought the heart to be. Desire was like a bruise: colorful and warm, but it still hurt.

Vera caressed the fullness of her breasts. Felt the weight to them, balanced like scales. Electricity tickled her veins, Joan’s skin hummed with heat. Gentle sensuality felt a bit too vanilla for her liking. She goaded her Judas, her hair perfectly mussed, and her lips parted slightly.

“Think outside the box.”

Joan combatted Vera’s quietude and the tenacity of her actions with a gravelly intonation. How someone could paint pretty words and somehow taint them was beyond Vera. The banter excited her more than she cared to admit. Her dark nipples peaked, scratching against midnight lace.

The heel of her palm nudged against the bridge of ivory panties while her lips caressed her collarbone, inching lower to nip at her breasts through death’s pale, white brassiere. She nipped with the ferocity of a feisty kitten.

She took the breast from the cup to squeeze malleable flesh. The tip of her nail grazed a hardened nipple. A wet, craving mouth replace her nails.

“You want more,” Vera murmured in between the exert, dexterous ion of her ministrations. Accusation flung at her transgressor. “You enjoy this.”

A hunger chewed at her. She loathed when others proved correct.

“Perhaps.”

Her cunt fluttered. The taller woman emitted a low groan of pleasure. Her claws sank into Vera’s back to pull her closer. By the end of things, they made a tangled mess, the sofa cushions dented from mutual exertion. Finally, there was some semblance of equality. Of balance.

“Enough,” Joan rasped her fatal command.

Dazed, blue eyes peered back. This infernal woman presented a structured allure manufactured by the cunning of her mind. She controlled ever chess move while giving Vera just enough leverage. With a slap to her curved ass, she took her to bed. They didn’t need the light to see their bodies. The starry night offered a seductive glimpse.

“Will you carry me?” She asked, tone piqued by intrigue.

Deadpanned, Joan looked at her.

“You haven’t earned the privilege.”

They trapezed down the hall towards their small death, their footsteps falling in sync. Dante had no time to spread morality. Koschei’s house hadn’t burned down yet. She remained deathless through a smoldering stare and the way she elicited _a little death._ With a crook of her finger, Joan beckoned her closer still. What a fucked up love affair.

“Few reach this point of no return,” Joan mused wryly. Her lips twitched as if she was trying to form a smirk for Vera’s benefit. Cui bono, as it were.

The bed creaked. Robed in beauty, clothed in the scraps of ruin, she represented a rare ideal. Joan removed her bra which hung askew, exposing her swollen, aching breasts. The remainder of the lingerie slid off long, graceful legs. The mass of curls between her leg gleamed from the sliver of moonlight touching this forbidden room. Lingering in the doorway, Vera felt parched. The Governor filled her uniform rather nicely. Seeing her bare, however, was a far more appetizing image. She **ached** for her.

“I’m honored,” she said and meant it.

Judas joined her on the marital bed. Like an over-idolized messiah, she laid down. Her hair flowed richer than ink across the firm pillow. Steel grey sheets writhed beneath them.

Vera flashed a look that said, ‘ _I’m new to this. Patience._ ’ She was too addicted her mentor to pay attention to the bland wall, or the ironed sheets, the polished dresser.

“The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain. Watch the rise and fall of my breath, Vera. Note the way my hand moves. I trust you know how to do the rest. Now, fuck me as you would yourself.”

Virgil taught one final lesson. Her hand slithered down to the temple between her legs. A musician’s fingers caressed herself. Vera played the role of naughty voyeur, her thighs squeezing together in an attempt to ignore the persistent ache there. Wetness coated her panties. Her throbbing clit begged to be touched.

She watched this empty shadow touch herself. Joan had seduced her with promises, innuendo, and stern authority. Rendered a replicant, Vera mirrored the actions she had been sold. Mentor had instructed pupil how to kiss, lick, suck, fuck.

In acquisition, Vera followed through. She touched her _there_.

A gasp sounded louder than a bullet. Shapely hips rose to trap Vera. She manipulated her equal to expose that bronze, willing throat. The heel of her palm crushed her windpipe. From brute force, her Deputy mewled.

Which was enjoyable more: punishment or the reward?

On her side, Vera squirmed. Teeth grazed an eager hardened bud. She milked pleasure from soreness. Joan held her closer to her breast. Slick and slippery, her fingers coated in arousal, she heard how wet she was. Felt it.

“ _Oh_ ,” she gasped when she curled deep inside the master of her dominion. They fought like Gods writhing on this stiff slab of a mattress.

A harpy gnashed her teeth, her stifling breath scalding her captive doe’s neck. She held her Deputy to her breast with Joan’s cruel lips locked onto the exposed nape. Those harsh kisses left a mark. An impression not to be forgotten.

Grunting, she lost herself to the end game, her release nearly there. She sensed it in the way her body quivered, her belly taut with tension, inner walls beginning to contract. Without warning, Joan came violently. Wetness flowed freely, Vera wanted nothing more than to drink in her fill.

Despite the way she bucked and thrashed, marble thick thighs still trembled. In the throes of pleasure, she thrashed the way an unholy devil would. With a moan, sly (shy) fingers pushed aside the bridge of her panties to rub her soaked sex. Wet and pulsing, pleasuring Joan turned her on immensely.

“Let go for me,” Joan rasped, her voice throaty and hoarse, in the aftermath of her unraveling. As a twitching mass, she collapsed.

Her thumb meandered in quick, frenzied circles, boney hips thudding against the bed. She licked her mentor’s salty skin slick from sweat. Crying out the name of her idol, she convulsed as she came undone, wilting thereafter.

A revolution occurred in the way they tumbled. Their copulation, (a dirty, dictionary word) wasn’t worthy of mythos, but the old Gods would’ve been bemused by such depravity.

There was no need for valorous quests like stealing from a dragon’s hoard. She gave her body to her. Willingly.

It didn't last. They didn't spoon. They didn't nestle together like a mismatched jigsaw.

“Where are you going…?” She inquired, her voice soft and waning, akin to the light in the hallway.

Joan offered a sparse glance over the shoulder, her body – without shame – was gloriously nude.

“To draw us a bath.”

It sounded like strange, simple logic. Unable to process this, Vera regarded it as a second language. Her tired, breathless body sprawled across the battered mattress.

Joan wet her lips, still lingering in the threshold, maintaining a famished stare.

_I’d like to tie you up._

Intimacy was a rare occurrence for a villain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nor could I resist a quote from The Divine Comedy carefully woven within.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise to respond to all of your comments soon. Thank you for all the kindness.


End file.
